Agreements
by BrokenSky49
Summary: 'Mycroft had stood over his brother, his little brother, and he couldn't save him. Not in the way he needed it. And he'd been afraid.' In which Mycroft discovers Sherlock's drug use, aka a 'list' origin story. Christmas Special Spoilers. One-shot. Enjoy!


**_Hello all! If you read my other fics, sorry about the lack of updates! This second semester has been busier than I expected. Hopefully my updating will become more regular after Spring Break. Otherwise, please enjoy this one-shot! I started it almost immediately after watching this Christmas Special. The feels were so real. I had to get them out. This is the result. Get ready for some Big Bro Mycroft feels. Enjoy! Reviews and favorites bring me much joy!_**

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._**

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 _"We have an agreement, ever since that day, my brother and I. Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list."_

 _-4 Years Before John-_

Mycroft could count on one hand the amount of times he felt true fear.

All of them involved his brother.

As much as Mycroft prided himself with his logical mind and lack of emotional sentiments, there seemed to be a chink in his armor where Sherlock was concerned. This was not something that the older Holmes brother took pride in, but he respectfully acknowledged its existence, as well as the reckless nature that his brother seemed to possess that made the chink fester more than Mycroft would have liked.

As much as Mycroft protested it, as much as he proclaimed otherwise, he cared deeply about, or— dare he even say it— _loved_ his brother. This was a fact that Sherlock would most certainly mock if it was mentioned outright. So it was Mycroft's loathsome secret, shown in subtle ways. It was why he had a whole notebook dedicated to the reckless detective. Notes upon notes on his behavior; on which cases he solved, which were unsolved, enemies he might have made, (no friends; Sherlock didn't have friends), acquaintances that inserted themselves into his life, how long he was gone from the flat, how long he was _in_ the flat, and any other occurrences that could pose a threat to the overall safety and security of his brother. Most would say that this kind of behavior was not natural and likely unnecessary, but then again, most didn't know Sherlock. He was neurotic and erratic in every sense of the word. Mycroft lost track of the amount of times he's had to intervene without Sherlock knowing. So many moments under the sun where he was able to save his little brother without fanfare. An action, a sentiment, realized by both of them, but never recognized. It was like an unspoken agreement. A truce bound in the blood of the other. A brotherhood that no one understood but them. So Mycroft was always there to save his little brother from disaster. Every time.

But Mycroft had stood over his brother, his little brother, and he couldn't save him. Not in the way he needed it. And he'd been afraid.

Sherlock was found in an abandoned warehouse twenty minutes outside of London. Mycroft had his mobile tracked to the location after he hadn't returned to the flat for five days. The case load that month had been particularly low, and although most considered lower crime a good thing, for Sherlock it meant boredom, which for Mycroft meant trouble. Mycroft just wished he knew how much trouble.

His brother's body had been found in a dark room on a mattress. Unconscious. Unresponsive.

Dead, they said. Or near dead. A lost cause.

An overdose. But more than that. MDI.

Multiple drugs, they said.

The sight of his brother on a dirty mattress, writhing, caught Mycroft off guard more than he'd like to let on. The needles on the floor. Unidentified white pills of various sizes. The vomit. The urine.

A mess. A bloody mess. But more importantly, Sherlock's mess. And once again, Mycroft found himself needing to clean it up. But could he?

He stooped down low, calling out to him. "Sherlock?" His voice was broken, and he inwardly condemned himself for his lack of composure. "Sherlock, brother, can you hear me?"

It was futile; he knew that. But he didn't stop. He didn't stop when the paramedics came, he didn't stop in the ambulance ride, and he didn't stop when he was at his brother's bedside.

They didn't know what drugs he'd taken, so treatment would take longer. They'd have to run tests, which took time. Too much time.

A lost cause. Those words rang in his head for hours. Several times, Mycroft held his mobile in his hands, ready to make the call to his parents. But he couldn't do it, not yet.

They did figure it out, eventually. But not before Sherlock seized several times and flatlined once.

That's a moment Mycroft would like to forget.

It had been a close call. So close. Mycroft still wonders how he did it. How he pulled through. The doctors called it a miracle. Sherlock called it resistance, although he doesn't remember anything from that week.

For that, Mycroft is grateful. Sherlock would never let him live it down. The tears. Mycroft was ashamed of them himself. There was no need for his brother to rub it in.

But there was one thing that Mycroft wanted his brother to remember. Or at least write down.

"Make a list."

"What?"

"A list. I would be naive and ask that you didn't take any at all anymore, but I know you, Sherlock. You won't stop. I doubt you ever will. So make a list."

"Why?"

"Do I really need to answer that?"

Sherlock paused. "What if I don't?"

Mycroft stood up suddenly. "Don't even suggest that to me. You don't want to know the consequences if you don't. I assure you, brother, they are most unpleasant." His voice was stern. Quick. Angry. Emotional. "You don't get to throw your life away. We're different, you and I. You know that. We don't get that choice. _You_ don't get that choice." He paused. "You make a list, next time. Every time. No matter where. No matter when. No matter how. Promise."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. An agreement. Sherlock nodded, looking away.

A contract between brothers.

If Mycroft couldn't control his brother's use, he could damn well make sure that they knew what bloody drugs were in his system so they could save his life each time he threw it away. It was the least he could do.

They were brothers, after all.

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